


L'ébauche

by SomewhereApart



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Art, Christmas, F/M, OQ Secret Santa 2016, Paris - Freeform, flirting in the louvre, paint me like one of your French girls
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-26
Updated: 2016-01-11
Packaged: 2018-05-09 12:11:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 20,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5539508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SomewhereApart/pseuds/SomewhereApart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for OQ Secret Santa: Regina Mills is an overworked, single woman in her mid-thirties who decides to spend Christmas on vacation in Paris. There, she meets a charming artist with blue eyes and deep dimples. They talk about art. A lot. Romance ensues. Based on the song "Three Days in Bed" by Holly Williams, so y'all can guess where this is going, I suppose...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't forgotten about "Breaking In," I promise, but as I wrote this for Secret Santa, we're gonna take a little break from the dramarama to spend three days in Paris with our favorite lovers. We'll back back to Breaking In, just as soon as these two are done making out. A lot. In Paris.
> 
> The rating is technically a T for chapters one and two, but should go up from there. All the art can be found on my tumblr, just search for the tag "paris au" or "L'ébauche"

 

" _The clock never stops and I hate this damn phone_

_Some days I want to run from the place I call home  
_ _Guess I'm just needing some danger  
_ _Give me three days in bed with a stranger…"_

_\- Holly Williams_

.

.

The first thing Regina does after checking into her hotel is buy a lighter and a pack of menthols. She doesn't smoke, quit right after college when mother found out and began daily reminders of what it would do to her hair, her skin, her teeth, her lungs. Her prospects. But every once in a while, every now and then, every few years, she'll buy a pack and smoke them one by one, with strong espresso and pastries from that place a few blocks away with the good croissants, and she will remember.

Nights in the Latin quarter, old books and sweet kisses, and long overly-intellectual discussions of art and literature. Daniel. Paris. Freedom from her mother's ever-watchful eye and overbearing influence.

It's been years, but the taste of nicotine always brings her right back. Today, it doesn't have to. She peels open the pack as she emerges onto the sidewalk, then thumbs out a cigarette, the sweet smell of tobacco distinct in the damp winter air. She lights, inhales, and sighs out a lungful of smoke and memory.

Returning to Paris is like reuniting with an old lover. At first blush all you see is everything you loved before, but the longer you linger the more you discover the stranger that hides beneath the surface. Remodeled buildings like new scars on old skin, familiar shops gouged out to make way for new façades, bodies and faces all unfamiliar, all new.

This place had been home for a while, a blissful short while, but now home is four thousand miles east, and Paris is just a ghost she always answers when it calls.

It has called her now, or maybe she has called it. Who knows? But she's here.

One first-class ticket, a few glasses of wine, and a good, long nap had landed her in the City of Lights just shy of noon a few days before Christmas. It's not the same as it was then, but it's something, at least, and she moves through the streets in a cloud of smoke and jet lag until that first cigarette is spent.

And then she finds the nearest cafe, orders herself _un café et un pain au chocolat, s'il vous plait_ , and exhales for what feels like the first time in weeks.

§§§

By eight o'clock the time difference has her head feeling like it's been stuffed with cotton balls instead of grey matter, and her eyes are so tired they hurt. It's late enough, she decides, returning to her hotel on legs that are numb from a day spent walking mostly outdoors. Her fingers are stiff and cold, aching as she uncurls them from around the strap of her purse to fish out her room key.

She takes a long, hot shower, letting the water warm her to her core and then crawls into bed and sleeps clear through until noon the next day.

§§§

She's been in Paris two whole days before she meets him.

It's December twenty-third, just after midday, and she is hugging the wall in a very crowded room of the Denon wing, her day dedicated to a slow and leisurely survey of the Louvre. The others in the room are not so slow, not so leisurely. They're all packed in around a half-circle rail, murmuring excitedly about the painting on the far wall.

The _Mona Lisa_.

What is it about this one painting, she wonders, that makes so many people jockey for space just to get close to it, just to see it, just to snap a picture? It's a masterpiece – of course it is. But the Louvre is full of masterpieces. Stunning paintings. Exquisite sculpture. Yes, _La Joconde_ is a singular piece, but Regina rather thinks the whole world has been duped. They throw adoration at this one small rectangle of oil paint on panel, as if it is imbued with some sort of magic, while practically ignoring the Rubens and Degas and Renoirs. Hell, she'd wager most of the people in this room won't even bother to spare a third glance to Leonardo's _Virgin on the Rocks_ , but this painting, oh, they go nuts for this one.

And why?

People are so odd. So easily swayed. Sheep.

Still, they make for good entertainment, and she's been on her feet for an awfully long time today. She stretches her ankle, rolls her neck, and watches as a mother snaps a photo of her incredibly bored looking teenage son and overly excited elementary-aged daughter, the crowd behind them, and no doubt some corner or edge of the _Mona Lisa_ visible somewhere in the shot.

 _We were here!_ Like they're standing in front of the pyramids, and not a single painting among thousands.

"Vous ne voulez pas la regarder de plus près?"

The voice is warm and smooth, teasing. And decidedly not French. The accent is all wrong. Good pronunciation, but there's a… something, a _je ne sais quoi_ to native French that is hard to master, even if you've lived among it for a while. So not French, but fluent. Maybe English?

She looks to her right, toward the source, and her heart knocks twice. He's gorgeous. Could melt into some mix of paint and canvas on any of these walls, and nobody would think him out of place. Light brown hair a little disheveled, with a short beard and deep dimples showing around his curious smirk. And those eyes. So blue, and teasing, and friendly.

If someone is going to disturb her people-watching to chat her up in the Louvre, she's glad he's at least a good-looking someone.

"Non," she replies. "Ce n'est pas ma première visite au Louvre. Et je parle anglais."

His smirk widens into a grin, and those dimples sink deeper into his cheeks. "And French," he notes, his accent now distinctly English. So she was right about that, at least.

"Well enough," she replies with a shrug, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. She's not usually this easy to charm, something she's always prided herself on, so she tries not to give in to the curving of lips too easily. She drops her voice and leans in conspiratorially, telling him, "I think she's overrated."

He chuckles, this stranger, and mutters back, "Don't let that lot hear you."

"That lot couldn't tell a David from a Delacroix," she counters, glancing back over at the throngs of people, and declaring confidently, "I could take 'em."

"Beautiful, witty, _and_ intelligent," he sighs. "How fortunate for me."

Regina rolls her eyes, but she hasn't yet managed to tamp down that smile.

"So tell me…" He leads off purposefully, like he's waiting for her to finish his sentence. Her name, she realizes, as she spares him a glance to find him hovering expectantly at the end of his sentence.

"Oh, I'm not that easy," she warns teasingly. "Finish your sentence."

He's chuckling again at that, not at all bothered by her refusal to give up her name. There's power in names, she knows, and what would be the point, anyway? She's in Paris for three more days, and he'll never be more than some man who flirted with her in the Louvre. Why not keep an air of mystery? Besides, what if _his_ name is terrible? What if he's _Larry the Louvre Guy_ for the rest of her life? No, she thinks she'd rather not know.

"Alright, then. So tell me, _milady_ …" (Regina snorts. That'll do, she supposes.) "Why would a woman so unenthused by the _Mona Lisa_ spend half an hour in this godforsaken room with her and her admirers?"

"Maybe I like the Veronese," Regina challenges, tilting her head toward the massive painting nearby, Veronese's _Wedding Feast at Cana._

"Well, who wouldn't?" he agrees, turning to look at it properly, his back to her for a moment. "It's massive."

It dominates the wall nearby, easily double both their heights, and yet everyone is still funneling toward the other side of the room. Largest painting in the Louvre at their backs, but the _Mona Lisa_ is the one they can't miss. Regina turns pointedly toward the Veronese, snubs _La Joconde_ in its favor (it has nothing to do with standing shoulder to shoulder with her charming stranger).

When they're side-by-side again, he says, "Of course, you've not spared a glance for it until now. So I think perhaps you're lying to me, milady."

Regina purses her lips to keep from smiling. Caught.

"I like people-watching," she admits. "They're always more interesting when they think nobody's looking."

But, wait.

Her brow furrows; her head turns away from Jesus' miracle and toward the wonder of God's creation standing beside her.

"How do you know how long I've been in this room?"

His smile had faded into an expression of contemplative serenity, his attention on the massive painting before them although she'd had no doubt he was listening to her. But now, he smiles, and shifts the sketchbook in his arms, tipping it down and toward her.

She hadn't even noticed he'd been holding it all this time, too caught up in blue eyes and dimples and fluent, wrong-accented French.

But she notices now, her mouth dropping open slightly at the image on the paper in front of her. It's a pencil sketch, lines drawn in graphite with a practiced hand. And it's her. Hair curling at her shoulders (it had been snowing when she made her way here, and the flakes had stuck in her hair, dampening it and bringing out some of its natural wave), lips slightly pouted, arms crossed over a torso that disappears into nothing.

"You're not the only one who likes to observe," he tells her quietly, and though there's a levity to his voice, there's an underlying tension that wasn't there before. And why wouldn't there be, she supposes. He's just shown her his work; no matter who you are, that takes a certain amount of guts.

"You're an artist," she says needlessly, one hand rising to ghost against the edge of the paper, smooth and cool under her fingertips.

"Of sorts," he confirms, and she tilts her head a little to one side, lets her hand slip off the book and drop down to hook into her coat pocket.

"What's that supposed to mean?" she questions with a narrowing of her eyes. "You drew this; it's…" She breathes in, and out, gaze skimming her own rendered form again before finishing with, "Excellent. I'd say that makes you an artist. And I don't give out compliments lightly, so don't downplay it. Humility is only so attractive."

He laughs again, softly – so good-natured, this man. "Well, then, thank you, milady. I simply meant it can be difficult to see oneself as an artist when one spends his day begging passersby to let him sketch them for a few euros."

"Ah, you're one of _those_ ," she teases, brows lifting and falling appraisingly.

"For now," he shrugs, his lips pressing together in an odd combination of smirk and frown. "Hopefully not forever." He waggles the book in his grasp, offering, "And this is yours, if you want it."

Regina narrows her eyes, just cynical enough to doubt anything offered to her for free – especially from a Paris street artist. Still, she makes sure she sounds as teasing as she does skeptical when she asks, "What's the price, Rembrandt?"

"No price," he assures, but then his brow pinches just a little, his head jinking slightly to the side. "On second thought… Walk with me a while?"

One dark brow arches. "That's your price?"

"That's my price," he nods, shifting his hold on the sketchbook. "To be honest, the sketch was mostly just an excuse to talk to you."

"You spent half an hour coming up with an excuse to talk to me instead of just walking up and flashing those dimples?"

He grins, shrugs. "I've been told one's chances of success in life are greatly enhanced by visual aids." Regina scoffs. Ridiculous. "Also, you're stunning. I didn't mind the wait."

He says it with a disarming sort of honesty, one that knocks the sardonic smirk right off her face. And then, he offers his arm, and another of those bone-melting smiles.

"Now, milady. Show me something better than the _Mona Lisa_."

§§§

She doesn't have to lead him far. They skirt the edges of the room, worm their way up closer to the lady herself, until they're standing in front of another portrait. Titian's _Man with a Glove_ , a portrait of a young man with one hand gloved, one bare. The dark background brings face, and hands, and shirtfront to stark attention. The man is handsome, and handsomely painted. No secret smile for him, just a look of intensity.

"Ah, the Titian."

She bobs her head, waiting until he steps in closer to her, just a little bit behind, his chest scant inches from her shoulder (she can smell his cologne, something woodsy and clean and masculine), then turns her head toward him to be heard as she says, "Cleaner lines, a sense of light and shadow that precurses Caravaggian-level chiaroscuro, and no busy background to draw your eye from the figure. The subject is enough; no need for extra noise. This is right here, a brilliant example of portraiture done right, and everyone in this room is obsessed with the other one."

He lets out an appreciative little groan, his knuckles brushing her back as he lifts a hand to his chest as if wounded (it's a ghost of a touch through layers of wool and cashmere, but her skin prickles with goosebumps nonetheless). "Not so much bedroom talk, milady, my heart can't take it."

He gets another eye roll for that one, but she's given up on fighting the smile. It's more fun to flirt, especially now that she's found someone she suspects has a decent IQ with which to do so. And a working knowledge of art history.

He shifts his attention from her to the painting, and she does the same, both of them taking a moment in the hubbub of the room to observe quietly.

After a few seconds of silence – from them at least – he tells her, "If we're going for Titian, I'm rather partial to _Bacchus and Ariadne_. Every single person in that painting looks like they're throwing shade."

Her laugh is sudden and loud, and thankfully short. He's not wrong about that one… She manages to tamp herself down to a snicker (not that her outburst would even draw an eye in this room), turning to look at him again and watching his face shift from anticipatory amusement to a sort of slack-jawed awe that smacks an awful lot of the way she'd looked at his portrait of her, she thinks.

It's over in a blink, and then he shakes his head and murmurs as though it's a revelation, "You have the loveliest smile."

Regina presses her lips together self-consciously, the opposite effect his words probably should have, but she feels suddenly naked, exposed. One hand lifts to tuck her hair behind her ear, and she thinks inexplicably of kissing him. Wonders for one, insane moment what his mouth would taste like against hers.

She swallows heavily, pushes back at the thought. They've known each other, what? Five minutes? She doesn't even know his name.

And then he's jerking his head toward the doorway and urging, "Come on, let's escape the chaos."

§§§

They wander. All over the place. Meandering through the first floor painting galleries, and making small talk as they go. He's an art student, has lived in Paris for the last fourteen months, and he comes here to the Louvre, now and then (to the other museums as well) to study people, and art. To sketch the statues and the tourists.

Regina tells him that she was overworked and overtired, that her little Parisian holiday was meant to de-stress and de-compress.

"Has it done so?" he asks, as they turn a corner, from Italian Baroque toward 19th century French, already having taken a spin through the Murillo room.

"So far." She adjusts her purse on her shoulder, wishing she'd have checked it, or left it at the hotel. But she hadn't had the fortitude to brave the Louvre's coat room during holiday season, so she'll suffer through the tugging weight, switching it to her other shoulder for a while in an attempt to balance out the misery. Her stranger watches her, presses his lips together for a moment but says nothing. "I've slept, and shopped, eaten good food and had some excellent French wine."

"Sounds like a happy Christmas, then, if perhaps a lonely one."

"I'm not lonely right now." She's not sure what made her say it – she hasn't felt lonely since she stepped off the plane – but it's out there now, and she just hopes it doesn't make her sound like a desperate idiot.

But it must not, because he flashes her those dimples again, shallow this time, a small, pleased sort of smile, and nods his head.

"Good. I suppose we'll have to see to it that you stay that way."

They spend twenty minutes standing in front of _The Raft of the Medusa_ , murmuring in museum-appropriate tones about the use of light and shadow and color, the emotions it evokes, the magnitude of it. She'd done her thesis on this piece, and so she gushes, cannot help herself, gives him half a lecture on the historical significance of the piece, its influence throughout the subsequent generation of French art, the actual shipwreck itself.

When she realizes he's been silent for five whole minutes while she prattles on, she stutters out, flushes with embarrassment as much as excitement and shakes her head, offers up a self-deprecating apology for her motormouth.

But he shakes head, insists no apology is necessary. And then he asks questions, and he gives opinions, and he listens with genuine interest. This man does not for a moment look bored, or frightened, or like he thinks perhaps he has bitten off more than he can chew. Not the least bit intimidated by her knowledge, her competence. (What a refreshing change.)

Instead he looks at her like… like she's the ocean and he's hoping to drown.

No, not like that. Nothing as romantic or sappy as that. But like she's fascinating, like she's interesting, like his attraction to her (clear as day even without knowing that he'd spent half an hour drawing her) is as much about her mind as whatever he sees beneath her wool peacoat and cashmere scarf and less-than-perfect hair.

Is he for real?

The thought that eventually they will part ways – that he will go to his home, and she to her hotel, and that will be that – lingers in the back of her mind, a painful itch that she tries to leave alone, tries not to scratch at with her consciousness because scratching only ever makes it worse.

So she delays, abandons the _Medusa_ after more than a reasonable amount of discussion, but stops again in front of Ingres' _La Grande Odalisque_.

He tilts his head to and fro, then leans in and whispers, "Is it just me, or is her arse in her knees?"

Regina snickers, her nose wrinkling, teeth catching her lower lip for moment before she taunts, "Now who's throwing shade?"

He laughs, and shrugs, then mock-confesses, "Professional jealousy, I suppose. Although perhaps unwarranted. Ingres wasn't terribly well-received for much of his career, was he?"

It's not a question, more a statement of fact – and a correct one, at that – but she appreciates that he accepts she'll know that as well he as does.

"He wasn't. And this," Regina juts her chin toward the nude before them, "Was never paid for. And you're not wrong, her spine really is about six inches too long."

"And yet here she hangs, in the Louvre," he sighs, then he aims another smile her way and teases, "Perhaps one day you will, too. _La Grande Touriste_."

Regina wrinkles her nose at the title, balking at the label of tourist, even though she knows full well she is now. After all these years, she can't really claim Paris as her own.

" _The Scholar in Contemplation_ , then?" he tries again, and that's better.

Much, much better.

They stick with the French paintings, making their way upstairs to the rest of the collection, and she tells him art history was a passion and a compromise – she was only allowed to study it under the guise of architecture, and eventually urban planning, but the buildings had never been her favorite. She appreciates them well enough, and can rattle off all the facts and trivia, but she'd fallen hard for the paintings, the sculpture, the sense of time, and gravity, and evolution.

He'd found himself thirty and unfulfilled, uninspired. Had come to Paris to spend a week in a remedial art intensive (he'd always sketched, always doodled in the margins, but had never taken it seriously) and had finally felt that spark again. It had taken a while longer for him to uproot and immerse himself, but he'd done it, finally.

Regina is suddenly, terribly jealous of Larry the Louvre Guy (she should never have thought that; now it's going to stick), a burning envy searing her lungs, stealing her voice as they walk.

If he notices her silence (and he must, for he's an observer, too), he doesn't say anything. They walk an entire room without speaking, until he stops in front of Regnault's _Three Graces_ , with their sumptuous curves, their soft edges. Regina thinks they're… peaceful. Soothing. She traces thighs and knees and toes, the highlight of a shoulder and the shadow of a hip. Breathes out her envy for her mystery man's freedom, and inhales a breath to continue their flirtation anew.

"Brought to a halt by the naked ladies, huh?" she teases, and he chuckles (oh, how she likes when he does that).

"They are a favorite of mine," he retorts, unclear whether he means naked ladies in general or these three in particular. Regina imagines the answer is probably both.

"They _are_ beautiful," she agrees.

"Exquisite," he corrects, his gaze moving over the painting in a lazy perusal not unlike the kind she's caught him giving her now and again.

"Does this mean you're an ass man?"

It's a bold taunt, especially for a man she's just met, but she can't resist it. Right there in the center is a perfectly rendered rear end, after all.

He doesn't miss a beat, turns to her with mischief in his eyes and lobs back, "Why do you think I'm talking to you?"

Regina's brows shoot up to her hairline for a brief second, and she reassesses her definition of "bold."

"Too much?" he questions with a grimace.

Regina dismisses good concerns with an easy, "No, no…" Turning her attention back to the painting as she adds, "I _do_ have a great ass." Because why should he be the only shameless flirt in the room.

It earns her another of those toe-curling laughs of his, and a murmured, "Oh, I like you. Nothing like a woman with a healthy dose of self-confidence."

She squints at the painting, scowling in concentration to keep from smiling. Her cheeks are starting to ache.

He's not wrong about the confidence, and yet, he is. She knows she's beautiful, has been told time and again (has been told by one coworker in particular that she has "an ass that won't quit"), but she doesn't always feel it. She looks in the mirror and sees every scar, and freckle, every fine wrinkle. But confidence is attractive, and relatively easy to fake. She's gotten good at saying all the right things. At burying insecurity under bluster.

What does he see when he looks at her?, she wonders.

He'd probably tell her – his candor seems endless. But she doesn't ask.

She comments on the graces instead.

"The breasts look a little… pasted on, though. But I suppose you can't have everything."

His curiosity is all mock-sincerity when he asks, "You mean that's not what they look like in the flesh?"

Her head swivels to glare playfully at him. "Oh, please. Mr. Charming Art Student with Dimples Who Picks Up Women in Museums by Drawing Them Portraits. Don't play innocent with me. You've seen your fair share of breasts, I'm sure."

He grins. Guilty, but unashamed. "We all had our youths." Then he turns back to the Graces, his body close again. She can smell that cologne, can almost feel the heat of him but that's ridiculous. She can't, not really. There's several inches between them, still. "They could be worse, though. Half of the Italian Renaissance looks like someone slapped a couple of cantaloupes on a flat chest and called them womanly curves."

"Well, what do you expect when all the models were men?"

"Foolish lot if you ask me," he says sagely, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his jeans and letting his shoulders rise and settle. "When God grants you a legitimate excuse to spend all day staring at naked women without feeling like a lech, you thank your stars for the gift and take advantage."

Men.

"Is that what you do, then?" she taunts. "When you're not sketching tourists, that is."

"Not as often as you'd think," he tells her. They're looking at each other now, the Graces forgotten for a moment. "The opportunity to draw a woman in all her glory doesn't arise frequently. Not outside of a classroom, anyway."

"Maybe you should spend more time offering unsolicited drawings to unwitting women in museums," she teases, waggling her brows at him, and realizing a moment too late the implication in her words. "Drum up some interest."

"Is that an offer?"

She feels heat up the back of her neck, the apple of her cheeks. That hadn't been what she meant, not really. She laughs softly, shaking her head in dismissal and telling him in no uncertain terms, "No. It was not."

Still, she can't help imagining, for just a moment. Letting him. Her naked, him with a pencil in hand, tracing her curves on paper. She licks her lips unconsciously, and his gaze flicks down, and back up. His eyes are so blue. So blue, and inviting, and the _Three Graces_ stand by, forgotten, as the air between Regina and her charming stranger grows charged, electric. Like the first breath outside after a thunderstorm.

He's biting his lower lip, teeth caught on the bottom of a smile, her rejection tumbling off him like water off a duck's back, and as the tension between them sparks and zings, he says, "Have dinner with me."

Regina blinks, snapping back to her senses, shaking her head a little to clear it.

"What?"

"I'm starving," he says, shrugging nonchalantly. "Let me take you to dinner."

Oh, that's… that may not be a good idea. This is a gossamer moment of frivolous flirtation, a bubble that will pop just as soon as she steps outside the museum, and she knows that, she's alright with that. With this ébauche of a masterpiece that will never be covered over with paint, never be finished. But if she leaves this place with him… Well, then there's no telling what will happen.

"I'm leaving in a few days," she protests weakly, regret coloring her words more than she'd like, but he is undeterred, reaching for her hand, and holding it gently in his.

"I'm not asking about a few days, I'm asking about tonight," he dismisses. "You will have to eat dinner, yes?"

And, well, "Yes…" she will.

"So have it with me. No promises, no expectations. No nude modeling, I promise." He smiles again, and she feels her mouth echo without thought or hesitation. His thumb skims her knuckles, those warm eyes imploring her. "I find I don't want to part ways with you quite yet, _milady._ "

She doesn't either. Not at all. She _wants_ to say yes. But it's foolish, and she's leaving, and… And screw it. She's on vacation. In Paris, alone, to relax, to unplug and unwind, and undo the stifling effects of a nine-to-five job that leaves her all too often with a headache, and a backache, and a deep-soul ache of dissatisfaction. And a beautiful man is asking her to dinner, so screw it. And maybe him, if she's so inclined.

With one caveat.

"No names," she demands, making his brows rise slightly. "Ever. When you have names, you get attached. You go home and you think 'I wonder what Larry is up to these days, and you get sad, and I am not here for sad."

He seems to understand, or at least agree, because those brows sink back down and he nods, then smirks. "It's not Larry, I'll give you that much." Thank God. Goodbye, Larry the Louvre Guy. "But alright. No names." He lifts her knuckles to his lips, presses a kiss there and asks overtop of them, eyes sweetly boyish but with an edge of promise, "Will you dine with me, beautiful stranger?"

Regina smiles.

"Yes."


	2. Chapter 2

The light is fading quickly as they enter the Tuileries, headed westward into the purples and pinks of the sunset.

Her stomach kicks up a dusty flutter of nerves that has her reaching reflexively into her purse, drawing out her slowly dwindling pack of cigarettes. Muscle memory brings one out and to her lips, her lighter poised to flick into life when she remembers she has company. A stranger, one who is interested in her. One who she's already mulling over the possibility of kissing before the night is over.

She hears her mother - _What man would ever want to kiss someone who tastes like a smokestack, dear?_ Daniel had never cared, but he'd smoked, too.

She glances over at her companion, drawing the cigarette from her mouth long enough to ask, "Do you mind?"

But he just shakes his head, looks out at the path before them, and says, "No." Relieved, she lights up, stashing her lighter in her purse just as he says, "Those things will kill you, y'know."

Regina rolls her eyes. Not the first time she's heard _that_. "Lots of things will kill you," she reasons after blowing a plume of smoke away to the side. "And I only smoke in Paris."

"How cliché of you," he teases, reaching for her free hand and weaving their fingers. He's put on gloves; it's chilly, but her hands are bare, so she lets him cocoon one in the warmth of his. There's a clutch of butterflies in her chest for which she mentally berates herself. She's not a schoolgirl.

_Get a grip, Mills._

She clears her throat slightly, takes another quick drag, and tells him on the exhale, "I smoked when I was studying abroad here. Started here, and quit not long after I got back to the States. It's not Paris without a pack of menthols."

He snorts. "Not even Gauloises? How terribly un-French," and she finds her mouth twitching into another smirk.

"I was twenty; give me a break."

"Oh, alright," he relents dramatically, his thumb rubbing along the knuckle of her index finger in lazy passes, pace easy as they make their way through the gardens. She wonders if he's taking her anywhere particular – she hadn't asked. He'd said dinner, she'd said yes, and then off they'd gone. Spontaneity has been serving her well so far, after all. Why give it up now? "I suppose we all had a few ill-advised ideas in our university years."

"Mm, and what were yours?"

"Wiser than menthols," he taunts her; there's light enough left to see his dimples flash. But then he sucks in a lungful of cool air, breathes it out and confesses, "I chose the safe path that was expected of me, instead of the one that called to me."

Her heart twists, squeezes like it's wrapped in a fist as his words hit home. "Yeah, I've done that," she murmurs almost to herself, adding, "I'd take the cancer sticks any day," before drawing the cigarette to her lips for another pull.

"Touché." His grip tightens for a moment, relaxing again. "What would you have done, then? If you'd chosen your own path."

"I'd have stayed." Her words are soft, but not quiet, tinged with sadness and regret, grief and heartbreak. "Here in Paris. I'd have stayed, and married a particular man, gotten a masters, a doctorate, a teaching post or maybe a curatorial position..."

"Sounds perfectly respectable," he reasons, and that's what's always burned her, of course. It _was_ a perfectly respectable life plan. To most people.

She drips with bitterness she cannot swallow even after all these years, as she replies, "And yet."

"Not so, in the eyes of a parent?" he guesses, correctly.

"My mother," Regina explains. "She always valued influence. Practicality. Art was… frivolous. Why would you want to teach a bunch of co-eds about some old drawings when you could walk a city block and know it's there because _you_ said it should be. To be honest, she wasn't thrilled with city planning, either, but…" Wool-clad shoulders lift and fall. "It was a compromise."

"It sounds interesting, at least. Challenging. I'd imagine most of us don't give much thought toward what goes into making a successful city."

It's true. Urban planning is something the average person definitely takes for granted – but that's fine. That's as it ought to be. Means she's doing her job, right, she supposes.

"You're not wrong. And it could be worse. I don't hate it, I'm just..."

"Burned out," he finishes for her, and Regina nods.

"I haven't taken a break in…" She's not sure. Ages. Months. Not since Daddy's funeral, she thinks, and that was last fall. More than a year. "Too long."

"Until now."

Her head bobs slowly, as she echoes, "Until now."

Regina flicks ash off the end of her cigarette, her fingertips icy enough to make her consider abandoning it before it's spent. It's cold enough to have snowed today, can't be above thirty, and there's the occasional gust of wind like the one that just chapped against her cheeks and slithered between neck and scarf to coax a shiver through her. She's glad for the knit cap on her head, for the stylish-but-warm boots keeping her toes toasty, for the warmth of his hand enveloping her own. For the way he steps just a bit closer, his arm pressing against hers now as they walk.

She probably should have brought something heavier than the peacoat. But she'll manage; it's not _that_ cold. And the company is good. The conversation, too.

In that vein, she continues, "What about you? What did you do, before this?"

"I was a lawyer."

Well, that's not at all what she would have guessed. Regina gives him a look of mild incredulity.

"A lawyer?"

"Yes." Those dimples are taunting her again.

"So you went to university," she clarifies, and he _Mmhmm_ s, "and then law school..." His grin widens as he confirms, _Yes. "_ And then said screw it all, I'm moving to Paris to draw tourists in museums."

His smile dims a shade at that, head shaking as he frowns slightly and corrects, "Moving to Paris to draw beautiful things. And paint, and…" He trails off, licking his lips (she wants to do that, she thinks, and then she tells herself to rein in her hormones and takes another drag on her cigarette). "I was a criminal defense attorney. Like my father before him, and his before that. It was simply what was done as a Loc-" He stops suddenly, clears his throat, then continues pointedly, " _In my family_."

Regina grins, warns, "Careful," before she takes a last drag on her cigarette and stubs it out.

"I caught it," he assures, eyes dancing with humor as he lifts their joined hands to his lips for a brief kiss. He lets them drop again, lets hers go completely so she can fish her own gloves from her purse as he adds, "Our anonymity is safe," and then continues with his tale. "My mum passed when I was young, Dad right before I took my bar exams." She murmurs a sympathetic apology, reaching for his hand again, then, both for the return of his warmth and the hope of any comfort in hers. "It was a long while ago, now."

"Still hurts," she says softly, and he looks at her, really looks at her for a moment, and sees without words what she's saying: _Me, too. Mine are gone, too._ He nods in acknowledgement, gives her a sad little smile, one that she returns.

"It does," he agrees, the moment holding for another breath, and then breaking as he inhales and continues, "Anyway, I had a job all lined up at my father's firm. And I took it, of course. Continued the family legacy, and all that. So for the next few years, I spent all day in the ugly things. Murder, and extortion, and the like. It was… soul-crushing. Focusing every day on the worst things that people can do to each other. I needed a break, and so I took one. Came here, for that week. After that, it never felt right - sitting at a desk, or working late nights in a conference room, standing in a courtroom and trying to mask the ugliness of a person so that the world wouldn't see. I hated it."

"So you left."

"I did."

Her shoulder brushes his, not entirely accidentally, and he bumps back against her almost immediately, lips pulling into a smirk. So much for being subtle, she thinks.

But she might as well go with it now, so she moves a half-step closer, until her arm rubs against his with every step, biting the bottom edge of a smile for a moment before she says, "To show the world beautiful things. Like dissatisfied city planners with hat hair."

He laughs at her, his smile wide (he has nice teeth, she thinks, and then she wonders who thinks that about someone? Her, apparently...).

"Exactly," he chuckles, leaning in toward her to add, "Although I find your hair quite fetching."

"It looks better when it hasn't been snowed on," she insists, another gust of wind whipping at them and making her reach for the lapels of her coat, tipping them up around her scarf, tugging it closed more tightly at the neck.

He frowns, then, declaring, "You're cold."

"I'm fine," she dismisses. "It's just the wind."

Still, he's undeterred, using their joined hands to draw her in until she's pressed against his side, then wrapping an arm around her shoulders. It frees her hands to tuck into her pockets - her cozy, body-warmed, fleece-lined pockets. Which means that she is, yes, considerably warmer, especially when his hand rubs up and down her shoulder a few times before settling in place.

She smiles sheepishly at him, murmurs, "Thanks," and breathes in that warm pine scent of him now that she's close enough to really get a good whiff again. God, he smells good. She wants to bury her nose in his neck and drown in it. And maybe taste that spot just beneath his ear while she's at it.

"A lady should never be uncomfortable," he tells her, like it's gospel, like it's bare fact.

They fit well – he's taller than she is, especially in her flat boots, but not so much taller that she feels like a shrimp. She slots in just right against his side, and they fall into step together, lapsing into meaningless conversation as they walk the last several yards of the Tuileries.

They talk about dinner – not about where, but what. Or rather, what sounds good, in general. He dislikes duck, she discovers, something she considers terribly unfortunate for a man living in a city where he can find such exquisite duck confit; he can't believe she turns her nose up at strawberries, of all things. They agree on espresso – it should be hot and strong and available from first light to the toll of midnight. And chocolate, although he prefers white, and she dark.

By the time they emerge on la Place de la Concorde, the light is gone, only streetlights and the faint idea of stars above to illuminate their way. She looks up at him in the lamplight as they wait for a traffic light to change, and he glances down to meet her gaze, smiling blithely.

His arm tightens slightly along her back, pulls her in a little closer, and she doesn't miss the way he breathes in, wets his lips.

Oh.

Oh, yes.

He's going to kiss her.

And more importantly, she's going to let him.

Regina presses her lips together for a moment, hopes they're not too dry, then darts her tongue out to dampen them. He watches, his mouth twitching slightly, and the air grows thick. Charged. Her breath deepens.

Those blue eyes flick away from hers for a moment, and then he rasps, "Light's changed," and is stepping toward the crosswalk, Regina stumbling along with him, guided by his arm at her back.

What?

She'd been sure he was about to kiss her, had been positive of it. The moment had been _right there_ , and now they're scuttling across several lanes of traffic and she is very confused. He _wants_ to kiss her, she's fairly certain of that. Has suspected for a while – not a hard thing to speculate of a man who spends half an hour drawing you and then God knows how long weaving through tourists and talking about art with you, walking through a twilight park, warming your hands, warming your shoulders.

Is it the cigarette? she wonders, swallowing anxiously. Was Mother right? She tastes like an ashtray, and it's a turnoff, no matter what he'd said?

Or maybe he just thinks _she_ doesn't want to _be_ kissed. She knows she can be a bit… frosty. Can sometimes go too far in the sass, and leave people – men – people – thinking she's not interested.

But he must know she's interested. She's spent the whole afternoon with him, is letting him take her to dinner. She's been flirting in a manner she is fairly certain qualifies as "shamelessly."

Maybe he just needs a little push. A little permission. It's not her favorite thing – a hesitant man – and he hasn't struck her as lacking an assertive streak up until now, but maybe he's just being overly polite. Considerate. Chivalrous even.

So, as they hit the Champs-Élysées, she steels her own guts, and cranks up the flirting, making her position perfectly clear with, "You can, you know. Kiss me. I don't mind."

One side of his mouth curves up for a moment, and then he frowns pleasantly and dismisses, "Nah," and adds, "I'm waiting. After dinner, perhaps."

Her brow furrows.

"You're waiting?"

"Yes."

Well, that's… silly.

"May I ask why?"

"Certainly." His arm falls from her shoulder, grazes against her ass as it rounds back between them and urges her hand from her pocket, grasping it in his again and then letting clasped fingers swinging between them like a pendulum. "You see, once I've kissed you, then I've kissed you."

"I...see?"

"Mm." That pendulum swings up and up, bringing leather-clad fingers to his lips for a kiss much more chaste than the kind she was hoping they'd be sharing right about now. "And while I'm quite certain that I'll want to _keep_ kissing you, that first kiss will be over. And to be honest, I rather enjoy the anticipation. So for now, I'm quite content to walk with you, and eat with you, and to want very, very badly to kiss you. In fact, I'm going to spend all of dinner wanting to kiss you. And, if I'm lucky, dessert. And then, m'amourette, _then_ I will kiss you, possibly goodnight."

Oh. Well. Well, that's… Her cheeks are flushed, and not just from the chill, her palms warm inside her soft-lined gloves. He's certainly a smooth talker, her charming stranger.

That second-to-last word sticks with her, though, has her brow lifting in question and challenge: "Possibly?"

She catches sight of his dimples in the glow of streetlight as they pass beneath it.

"You did catch the part about how certain I am I'll want more than one kiss, yes?" he teases, and then she's smiling, too.

"I did."

"So that 'possibly' depends on you, milady," he explains, drawing their joined hands behind his back, until she's looped around his waist, and then he encircles her shoulder in solid warmth again. "And just how many kisses you let me steal from you."

"Ah." A lot, she thinks. She's going to let him steal a lot of them. But in the meantime, "Well, let's worry about dinner first."

His chuckle is as warm as his body against hers, makes her warm, too, right through the middle and lower down.

And then he tells her, "Of course."

§§§

They pick a place on the Champs-Élysée, and she wonders at such a stereotypically touristy locale, instead of some delightful local hole-in-the-wall, but he tells her it's better for people-watching, and she can't very well deny that.

The street is festooned in twinkle lights, festive and bustling despite the slickness of the footstep-melted snow coating the sidewalk. She wishes for a moment that it was summer, that they could find somewhere to sit outside and watch the people pass, enjoy the weather. But it's too cold for that now, so they seek out a place on the street with a good menu, and decent prices, and he requests a seat near the window. It's as close to outdoors as they can manage, but they needn't have bothered. They could be tucked away in a quiet corner booth in the back for all the attention they pay to anything outside of their own table.

They order wine - she orders a glass, he suggests a bottle to share instead, and she figures why not? She's on vacation, and she has a feeling, a very strong feeling, that she's going to do something ill-advised but very enjoyable before the night is out. No point in staying sensibly sober when she has no desire to be sensible in the first place. And it's good wine.

Her fingers toy with the smooth glass of the stem, twirling it this way and that as they get into a discussion about what a shame it is she's not here long enough for them to take in the Musée d'Orsay together, what a shame she's visiting Christmas week, and they both dance around what he must know as well as she does: the museums are only closed on Christmas Day; they could go in the morning. But dinner is one thing, making plans "for the morning" implies quite another, or at the very least requires commitment to something past the next hour or two, so she doesn't suggest it, and neither does he.

Somewhere in the midst of a conversation about the museum's lesser-appreciated works (Degas, at the moment), and whether either of them has actually consumed absinthe (they have, both), his hand makes its way across the table, his fingertip coasting along the edge of hers. It's a miniscule touch, a tiny thing, but she feels it immensely, the slow, teasing tickle. It's enough to coax her hand open to the tabletop, his fingers following the blooming descent before linking loosely with hers. They're restless, or rather, simply not still, toying with her fingertips, stroking with deceptive nonchalance between her knuckles while they talk. But it's not accidental, she doesn't think it can be. He likes the anticipation, after all, and as light as it is, the touch is stirring, arousing.

Distracting.

She's not sure how she manages to follow the conversation when he swirls a figure-eight across her palm with his index finger, telling her something about the delectable use of light in _Starry Night Over the Rhone_.

"I've always preferred it to _The Starry Night_ ," she admits. "But maybe that's because you see that one so much more often."

"Mm," he agrees into his wine, anointing her palm with a cross. "Familiarity breeds boredom."

 _Ain't that the truth_ , she thinks.

So much in her life has become familiar, routine, and while it's a comfort sometimes, it's also… stagnant. Which is why she's here. In Paris. Shaking up the snow globe, as it were. She hadn't planned for her Parisian reset to involve a gorgeous man, to involve even the possibility of taking a lover, but the idea is sounding more and more appealing the longer she sits here, endlessly stimulated – both intellectually and otherwise.

"In life, as in art," she murmurs, and he lets out a single, soft chuckle. A sort of agreeable _hmph_ , and traces the fleshy part of her palm, just beneath her thumb.

"And are you bored, milady?" he questions, tilting his head slightly, blue eyes narrowing.

Regina smiles, and answers back, "Not just now."

§§§

Regina means to sip slowly, but somehow she's downed most of her first glass of wine by the time the waiter comes to take their dinner orders. She orders duck, just to spite him (because she has a weakness for duck confit), and stops him from ordering mussels with a grimacing confession that she's allergic. He switches to lamb, and then they're left alone. Just them, and the wine, and the sexual tension.

The conversation shifts to allergies, to the sadness of living in New England and being unable to partake of crab cakes, or lobster rolls, or clam chowder. He's allergic to bees, and welts up like a golf-ball any time he falls prey to a mosquito. She suffers with ragweed and mold.

And all the while, his fingers trace the map of her hand, her own twitching beneath him from time to time, until finally dragging themselves to lazy life, her thumb strolling the length of his, short nails scraping gently over his wrist as it passes. She manages to draw a shiver out of him with that last one, and grins, oddly triumphant, as she watches the little ripple trace through him.

He's unashamed, unapologetic, his expression softening as he studies her face for a moment, before murmuring, "You are so beautiful. Truly. I could look at you for days."

It would be cheesy if it wasn't so sincere; as it is, it's just… hot. Flattering. Bolstering.

Her first thought is a terribly inappropriate, _Would you like to?_ , but she doesn't lend voice to it for obvious reasons. Instead she draws her hand back almost reluctantly, and offers a quiet, "Thank you," as she reaches for the wine. "If you weren't so attractive, that might be a little creepy," she adds, unable to tamp down the urge to tease.

He flashes her those dimples again, and says, "Then I should thank my father – God rest his soul – for my good looks."

Her brows lift.

"But not, clearly, your modesty."

He laughs softly. "I've not had much cause for that in a long while, no, I suppose you're right. Besides, I rather enjoy flirting with you, and while subtlety has its place in flirtation, I find candor and boldness to be much more pleasant in the end."

"Well, then I'm surprised you didn't say you wanted to peruse _L'Origine du Monde_ ," she shoots back, pleased at the rumbling laugh that the comment draws immediately. His dimples deepen, head shaking back and forth as he grins.

"You really are delightful," he tells her. "Bold, and audacious. Quite a woman, milady."

Blood flushes pleasantly into her cheeks, and she thanks heaven for dim lighting so he cannot see how much the compliment thrills her. She lifts her glass in a little toast, and volleys, "And you've only known me for an afternoon."

"Best afternoon I've had all year," he swears to her, and it's a surprise to realize that she agrees. After months of monotony, she feels finally like she's come alive. A part of her long-dormant, long-private – the quiet-Saturday-afternoons-at-the-MFA part of her – has awoken and stretched cramped limbs, muscles vibrating with the need to run full-tilt toward a rare equal. She has the distinct feeling that when she leaves this man, that precious, yearning part of her will want to curl back up and lie in wait again, so she feels the urge to make this as memorable as possible.

She wants to walk into the European Paintings wing a month from now, a year, or more, wants to stand in front of Renoir's _Dance at Bougival_ and imagine that bearded man is this one. Wants to remember the taste of his kiss, and the pressure of his hands, the soft rasp of his beard against her neck.

She wants to take him to bed. It's reckless and foolish and not at all something she does – sleeping with men whose names she doesn't know, whose names she flat-out refuses to know; men who will not be in her life more than a few days, if even that; men who openly pursue her and God knows who else – but tonight she wants to be a lover in Paris.

Nothing more, nothing less.

A woman, enamoured with a man, who is enamoured with her.

She wants to spread herself out like the _Odalisque_ , and let him bask in her just the way she intends to bask in him.

She is done saying no. For the rest of the night, her answer is yes.

Decision made.

Of course, as much as they both appreciate bluntness, there's something to be said for playing it coy. For making him work for it, even though he has already won. For flirtation.

So Regina says nothing about her newly arrived decision, simply tells him, "After dinner, let's get dessert somewhere else. Walk a little more. Make the afternoon into an evening."

He'd had his wine halfway to his lips again, hesitates for just a moment, long enough for her to wonder if he's realized her intentions after all, but the smile he gives her is more pleased than lustful.

"I think that's a fine plan, m'amourette," he says, before lifting his wine the rest of the way.

 _His little fling_ , she translates to herself.

Oh, how right the endearment will prove to be.


	3. Chapter 3

She has too much wine at dinner. Or maybe not too much, but so much. They order a second bottle – don't finish it, but make a good dent – so by the time they leave the restaurant all her limbs feel like they're coated in a warm salve. Loose, and tingly, and relaxed. Her head pleasantly swirly, but her gait still steady. Not drunk, per se, but very, very tipsy.

Her stranger is much the same, pink-cheeked and merry, slinging an arm around her waist as soon as they step out into the night.

The air has warmed a few degrees, and the wind is gone. It's still chilly, but it doesn't nip at her quite as much as it had on the way here, and for that, she's grateful. Still, she doesn't pull away, does the opposite in fact, tucking herself more tightly against his side.

They head for the river, their steps falling in sync after a moment.

He still hasn't kissed her.

But having already decided that she _will_ kiss him, and much more if he's interested, she finds her patience stretching, her appreciation for the sweet ache of anticipation growing with each step she wallows in it. She _wants_ , oh how she wants, but she will wait for the moment. Wait until they're not in a sparse current of meandering bodies. And then, if he doesn't kiss her, she will just drag him down to her level and plant one on him.

It takes until they reach the river, lights shining on the water like _Starry Night Over the Rhone_ , but when the time comes they draw together like a pair of magnets. The sidewalk is quiet, the vista stunning, and she turns with the thought of _This is it_ to find him already stepping closer to her, one hand sliding up to tangle in her hair, uprooting her cap slightly as icy fingers bury themselves in her nape.

She doesn't mind.

His head dips down to hers, foreheads pressing for a moment, lips hovering, that anticipation stretching between them, drawing tight like a bowstring. His breath is warm against her lips, smells like wine, the tip of his nose brushing against her own. And then she tilts her jaw up slightly, and that's it.

His mouth is on hers, and she moans at first contact, feels the electric zing of it from her lips to her belly and back up, worth every minute of delay.

Thank God he hadn't kissed her on la Place de la Concorde, because this, oh, this is heady and wonderful and not something she particularly wants to share with rush hour traffic. This is better, this quiet spot above the Seine, and when they part it's on a soft sigh of satisfaction.

"Worth the wait?" she whispers into the air between them, her voice smooth and warm. Teasing.

"God, yes," he groans, and then they're kissing again. He did say he'd want to keep kissing her, after all.

When he backs her up several steps, until her back is pressed to the masonry, she doesn't resist, just winds her arms up around his neck and opens her mouth more eagerly, teases her tongue against his lower lip. He tilts his head just so, meets her tongue with his own, and all that pent up tension, all that waiting, has done its job, has left them riled and needy. As second kisses go, it's ridiculously carnal. Deep and hot and the stone is hard at her back, his body firm against her front; she's pleasantly pinned, and pleasantly tipsy, and she feels a bit like she's floating.

He traces circles on her nape in time with the slowing dance of lips and tongue, his fingers still a little chilly despite being tucked cozily into her hair. His nose is cool against her cheek, his breath warm when they shift again.

She's damp and warm in places long neglected by anyone other than herself, and only from a few kisses. When the hands start wandering, when his other moves from where it had rested at her waist, dips down boldly and gives a greedy caress to her rear, he moans before she even gets a chance to.

Regina's resultant chuckle splits her face into a smile, and has the kiss sputtering out for a moment.

"You really are an ass man," she teases in low tones, their lips brushing as she speaks, neither willing to pull back enough to put actual space between them.

"You really do have a magnificent backside," he counters, and his voice has shifted, has gone low and intimate in a way she hasn't heard yet, and it makes things throb just a bit lower down. Oh, she wants to hear that voice while he's inside her, she thinks with a rush of heat.

But probably not here, not in the middle of the street, not mere feet from le Pont de la Concorde. Not only would it probably get them arrested, it's awfully cold. She's about to say they should continue on, that they should mosey across to the Left Bank and find somewhere to nibble on pastries and sip coffee. She's about to, but then he turns his head, ducks in close and noses her hair to the side, planting a warm, sucking kiss just below her ear, and _oh_ , that's the spot that makes her _weak_ , how did he _know?_

He didn't, of course, but he does now, because she inhales sharply, her grip tightening on his coat, that inhale turning into a low, moaning exhale, and this time when he chuckles she _feels_ it, all along the damp skin of her neck, chasing a shiver through her.

He drags his beard lightly along the sensitive skin, nuzzling down into the warmth of her scarf, another teasing caress that has her whining her pleasure – a sound that makes her flush with embarrassment, because my God, she's not some desperate hussy, but she's _wet_ now, that hand still planted on her rear end not helping in the slightest, and certainly not when he begins to knead and grope. Her foot rises without thought, hooking around his calf, shifting them so that he's notched more firmly between her thighs, and he groans, and she groans, and then she's pinned even more tightly between body and brick, hips grinding, his mouth on her throat again, his hand holding her snug against him, and oh, this is… this is wonderful, God, if she hadn't already decided to sleep with him, this would definitely seal the deal.

He's a good kisser, and attentive, and _thorough_ , sampling the side of her neck, seeking out spots to make her gasp and sigh, and when he kisses back up to her lips, when she's devouring him like they're _not_ standing on a street corner where anyone could happen by, the chilly air hits the remnants of saliva on her skin and raises goosebumps from ear to shoulder.

They're breathing heavily, both of them, gasping between kisses, and he's hard underneath his jeans (so she's not the only one reacting like a horny teenager then, thank God), pressing into her unabashedly. Regina just presses back harder, shimmies against him, and this time she's breaking the kiss not to laugh at him but to cover his neck in warm kisses, too.

She gives as good as she got, finds the little notch under his jaw that has him groaning low in the back of his throat, revels in the way his grip on her ass tightens when she nips at his earlobe.

"Love..." His voice is even better than it was before, a low growl, hungry, God, she's slick, she _wants_ him, right now, and he must be feeling much the same, because he follows the touch-too-familiar endearment with, "We need to stop this or I'm not going to be able to walk to dessert."

Her snicker in response is giddy, almost triumphant, and she pulls back, beaming her satisfaction that she's managed to affect him so.

"How _do_ you manage to walk around with that thing on the outside all the time?" she teases, thoroughly enjoying the way he looks at her, hazy-eyed and wanting, not making any efforts to hide his desire for her as he licks his lips and studies her face.

His mouth curls in that delectable little smirk, and he manages to tease back, "Well, ordinarily he's much less enthusiastic about my public goings-on. But you're quite…" She loves the way he _looks_ at her, drinking her in, shaking his head a little, catching that bottom lip in his teeth (she's already bitten it once, but she thinks she'd quite like to do it _again_ ). He finishes with, "Stimulating," and she rolls her eyes, but she's still smiling, and she says _Thank you_ , in lieu of whatever barb she might normally fling at a man.

She wants this one, she reminds herself. Sass has its place, but she doesn't want to discourage him at the moment. Certainly not when he's leaning in to kiss her again, this time keeping it shallow and swift, a lazy meeting of lips and tongue that's over almost before it begins. Just a final taste, she imagines, when he drops his brow to hers and lets his eyes fall shut.

"You smell amazing," he murmurs, running a fingertip down her pulse and murmurs, "Right there."

"Mm, you too. And you wear red well," she whispers teasingly, prompting him to pull back slightly and frown down at her.

Regina lifts her thumb to his lips and rubs at the smudge of lipstick there, and he grins.

"Ah," he says, and then, "You do seem to be missing a bit… just here." He kisses the corner of her mouth, then sucks at her lower lip gently, before husking, "And there."

Her toes curl.

"I'm not sure that's helping," she chides without a lick of heat, and her voice feels like warm whiskey, her body humming with a low current of need. She has a half a mind to tell him they should skip dessert altogether, but she tells herself to rein it the hell in. It's been a while, but she's not _that_ hard up. She can sit through dessert. Can walk a while first.

And he must be thinking the same thing, because he breathes in, then out, then leans in to press a soft, closed-mouth kiss to her lips before finally stepping back and seeking out her hand again.

She misses his warmth, acutely, adjusts her scarf with her free hand to keep the night air from taking advantage of the way he'd loosened it.

"Come on, milady," he urges, leading her toward the bridge. "Let's walk a bit."

§§§

As it turns out, 'a bit' is a leisurely twenty-minute stroll, across the water and then down le Boulevard Saint-Germaine, their hands, both now safely encased in gloves, swinging between them, or tucked intimately into each others' pockets when the wind kicks up a bit and he draws her in close.

It's not art, this time, but architecture. It starts as they're walking past le Ministère de la Défense, but the conversation quickly turns to the city's houses of worship.

"Which is your favorite, I wonder..." he muses, but when she takes a breath to answer, he cuts her off. "No, no. Let me guess. You hate the stereotypes, wouldn't dream of going where all the tourists flock in droves." She giggles – it's the wine. She doesn't normally giggle, but she's still feeling a bit dreamy and romantic, and it just popped out. He's not wrong, though – except that he is. "So it won't be Notre Dame, then, though I'm sure you'll admit it's quite magnificent."

"It is, and you're right. Not Notre Dame."

He pulls her in close again, but there's no breeze to blame this time. Just the warmth of his arm around her back, his fingers finding their way under the bottom of her peacoat and into her back pocket. Well, well.

She has to crane her neck a bit to see his face like this, but she does, watches him purse his lips and consider. "Perhaps Sainte-Chapelle. You like the stained glass, I bet."

"I do," she agrees, because she is a sucker for good stained glass. "But no."

He frowns then, makes this little _hmph_ sound, and squints as they maneuver around a lamppost.

"Saint-Sulpice," he says with a certain amount of confidence, leaning in toward her as he adds, "But before that bloody movie filled it up with tourists. You loved it for Delacroix. And perhaps the organ, although you've said very little about music today, so I can't be certain on that account."

She's had a smile on her face this whole time, can't help it in the midst of tipsy flirtation with this handsome man, but it spreads into a grin now. "Second favorite," she divulges, and he makes a sort of pained noise that he'd missed the mark again, but laughs immediately after, makes her giggle again softly before she adds, "I love the columns more than the organ. Feels very… Greek. But you're right about the Delacroix."

"Which one?"

She wiggles her brows. "Wouldn't you like to know? And you still haven't guessed, by the way. But you won't."

"La Madeleine," he tries again, bumping against her shoulder, knocking a laugh out of her as he teases, "It's very Greek."

"Nope." She pops the P, then grins triumphantly at his overdramatic groan of agony.

"Oh, I am failing here," he bemoans. "Utterly failing. An embarrassment."

Her shoulders shake under his arm, and then he pleads with her to just tell him, to put him out of his misery.

Regina scowls, or tries to anyway, but her cheeks keep pulling up, up. "You'll laugh at me."

"I won't," he assures.

"You will, you'll mock me; I just know it."

"I promise," he swears, giving her a little squeeze. "Just tell me, milady. Which of Paris's glorious houses of God tickles your fancy so?"

Her teeth dig into her bottom lip (still curved, she can't stop smiling), and she thinks of Daniel and picnics on the grass, and the world at her feet. All laid out in front of her.

One hand lifts to tuck her hair behind her ear, even beneath her cap (it lets in a chill, stupid nervous habit), and she admits, "Sacre Coeur."

He gasps slightly, sounds terribly betrayed when he murmurs, "Crawling with tourists. How wrong I was. And here I thought you were going to say Saint-Étienne or something." He doesn't laugh, though. Doesn't even tease her for such a banal choice, not really. "So tell me, milady. What is it about Sacre Coeur? The inside or the outside?"

"The view," she tells him with a shrug. "Don't get me wrong, the inside is nice. The outside, too. But… You can see the whole city from the steps of Sacre Coeur. It's like having the whole world at your feet."

Daniel had had a green-checkered blanket, and they'd had an old dark-wooden basket they'd picked up who knows where. She can't remember. It had been scuffed. Second-hand, certainly. And they'd filled it every warm weekend with bread and cheese and fruit and whatever else they'd been able to scrounge up. Laid themselves out on the grass of the park beneath Sacre Coeur and soaked up the sun, and the sounds. The sight of the city, _their_ city, laid all out before them. All of life, laid out before them. Theirs for the taking.

And then, not.

She pushes the thought from her mind (wine makes her maudlin now and then, when it doesn't make her reckless), shakes it off and adds, "And Montmartre has some great little cafes. If you have to rub elbows with tourists, it might as well be in Montmartre."

"I suppose that's fair." His palm rubs down her bicep from time to time, does it again now, leaving a streak of warmth in his wake.

"What about you?" she asks "Which is your favorite?"

The Boulevard is oddly quiet for a moment, a lull in the foot traffic they've been sharing the sidewalk with so far, and so his voice is clear even though he doesn't raise it. She looks up to him, watches him speak, and for a moment he looks far away. Peaceful.

"Sainte-Chapelle," he says. "The stained glass is breathtaking. Every time."

It's been too long since she's been there, Regina decides. She should go before she leaves. Wants to see the light, the colors. She ignores the part of her that adds _with him_. She wants to see those things with him, wants to watch the massive panes of colored glass take his breath away and try to capture that same awe for herself. The night feels suddenly like a soap bubble, flimsy and iridescent, a fragile, floating moment at risk of popping.

She doesn't want it to end, not now, not ever. Doesn't want to leave this magical night in Paris and go back to a lonely hotel room, and an even lonelier apartment. A cold bed, and ruthlessly organized office, a ringing phone, and paperwork and deadlines. She wants to stay here, stay now, for as long as she can. Wants to walk the streets all night, chilly fingers and cold nose be damned.

She pulls away just slightly to ask, "How far are we from Saint-Sulpice?"

He frowns pleasantly, brows bobbing up and then down as he considers. "About ten minutes, probably. Maybe fifteen. You want to go?"

Regina nods, plucks his hand from her pocket and lengthens her stride to pull him ahead more quickly for a moment.

"Right now."

§§§

It's massive. Seems massive. She always forgets how _large_ the Cathedrals feel when you stand at the foot of them. But here, in the plaza, all this open space and all that towering stone… it feels massive. And she feels… not.

They don't stop until they're near the steps, until they have to tip their heads way back to see all the way up (it's after closing now – tomorrow maybe the church will be open late for midnight mass, but not tonight). And for a minute, they just stare.

Her neck starts to ache a bit, so she shifts her head to the side, rests it against his shoulder. The angle is still not ideal, but the weight is lifted.

"Are you one of those people who sits in the front row at the cinema?" he asks her, a note of humor under the question.

Regina tips her head back down and chuckles, murmuring, "Sorry," before leading him back several paces. Something a little more neck-friendly. "Sometimes I like to stand up close. Let it all… loom."

"Taking in the details?"

She shakes her head. It's still a bit swirly, but her knees feel less like putty than they did when this little stroll began.

"No, just… being here. The Cathedrals always make me feel small. Y'know?"

His hands slide into his pockets, his arm still pressed against hers. She wonders if he really thinks he's lending her any sort of warmth, or if he just likes the contact.

"Mm," he says – an agreement, she thinks. And then he's looking up again, too, narrowing his eyes.

The lights feel warm. The night is cold, but the light on the church feels warm. Inviting. She wishes the doors were open. Wishes they could head inside and warm up, and just… sit for a while. She's done her eating, and her drinking, and her shopping. Has spent her afternoon at the Louvre, and tomorrow she thinks she'll take in the Musée d'Orsay, but she makes a mental note to find some time before she leaves to sit in the middle of one of the cathedrals and just... be.

To enjoy the quiet. The peace.

She's tried back home, but it's not the same. Holy Cross is huge, but it's lacking something. It doesn't have the same feeling, the same… presence.

"Do you believe in God?"

She wants to swallow back the question as soon as she hears it leave her. What kind of question is that? How is that even important? Now, with him. This man she's spent an afternoon flirting with, will spend an evening fucking, if all goes well. What on earth does _God_ matter for?

But there had been silence, and now it's filled. And he doesn't seem to mind.

"I do." She can see his head turn toward her out of the corner of her eye before he asks, "Do you?"

Her confession is soft. Secret. Like if maybe she says it quietly enough, He won't know: "I did."

She shivers, just once, and his arm finds its way around her back again, then the rest of him follows, shifting to stand behind her and draw her back to his front, wind his arms around her waist. It's warmer than their perpetual side-hug had been, and she leans back into him.

It occurs to Regina that her answer was a little on the depressing side, and she hopes fervently that this isn't a pity cuddle. But he doesn't sound like he pities her when he asks, "What changed?"

He just sounds curious.

She shrugs, her shoulders rubbing against his chest.

"Life. I never asked for much. At least…" She shuts her eyes, shuts out the night, focuses on his warmth. "I never thought I did."

His voice is a warm rumble against her back. "A particular man, a degree, a PhD…"

Regina's head bobs down and up. Once. Slowly.

"Never asked for much," she repeats, wishing for all the world she could keep the bitterness from her voice, she's on a damn date, but it's there, and well, he's all about candor, right? "But I never got it. The man… died. Was killed. And… the rest…" She breathes in, breathes out. Her nostrils are cold. The night is cold. But this man is warm, and his nose presses into her cap, or maybe that's his chin, she can't tell. She crosses her arms to rest atop his and presses them closer. "It all went away eventually. You moved here for beauty, to get away from the ugly things. I suppose I come back for the same. Everything that was beautiful… was here. Maybe I came to be with him. I don't know. Who knows. I should shut up."

He makes a soft noise of protest, shakes his head. His nose, she thinks. Definitely his nose. Probably cold, too, just like hers.

"Don't shut up," he urges. "Tell me who you are."

She frowns, tries to turn to look at him, to tell him again no names, but he kisses her skull through layers of wool and hair, and she stills halfway-twisted, settles back and shifts her head to rest against his shoulder again instead. His beard tickles at her temple.

Her brain catches up, then. Realizes his meaning. It's not her name, he wants, but her truth.

"Sometimes I'm not sure," she whispers into the plaza. "I think I spent my whole life doing what someone else wanted, and now…"

"Did you have siblings?"

"No. It was just me, and my parents. Maybe if there'd been someone else, I wouldn't have had to…" She breathes in deep, and out heavily. "Stupid. Mother was Mother. Even if there'd been two of us, she'd have had an iron fist. And my father would never have stood in her way."

"They're gone now?"

"Yes."

She feels his sigh, the warmth of it against her cheek, the top of her neck.

"You came home for Christmas. Didn't you?"

She hadn't meant to. Hadn't thought of it that way, not for a moment, but as soon as he says it, her eyes prickle with hot tears, and a part of her, that young, hopeful, part of her that saw the beauty in everything just _aches_. Maybe she did, after all.

But tears are not acceptable, not in public, not on a date, so Regina blinks and blinks, fuses her tongue to the roof of her mouth and says nothing.

"It's Jacob," he murmurs after a moment. She realizes suddenly that they're rocking, slowly, back and forth, back and forth. "The Delacroix that you favor. The man who wrestled with God."

She doesn't bother to tell him he's right. He already knows.

Instead, she points out that, "He loses in the end." Fought all night, and never truly felled his opponent. Only got his way out of sheer stubbornness.

"He wrestled all night with the Almighty and kept standing. Had his hip thrown out of joint and still wasn't overcome," he counters, and Regina scowls. Sure, if you want to be technical. "And then he demanded his blessing before he'd let the angel leave. I wouldn't call that losing, would you?"

She rolls her eyes, and sighs, muttering, "Art turns everyone into a theologian."

"You're only saying that because you know I'm right," he teases, jostling her slightly in his hold. It's probably supposed to make her smile, but it doesn't. Her heart is heavy, troubled. They shouldn't have come here. That soap bubble swells too large, too full, threatens to pop and disintegrate.

"He left limping," she reminds him. "It's not as though he conquered."

"Perhaps not, but he didn't succumb, either. Scrappy fellow, old Jacob." When all she does is nod, he lets out a weighted breath and gives her a squeeze. "I've made you all sad. I'm sorry."

"Not you," Regina assures with a shake of her head, a squeeze of her hands against his wrists. She doesn't want him to think that – he hasn't done anything. "Life. Maybe God, if He exists. But not you."

"Still. You shouldn't be sad at Christmas. I won't have it." He burrows into her scarf again, chasing a tickling shiver along her skin, making her head tilt reflexively to the side. His lips are cool when they press to the warmth of her neck. Chaste, and gentle. His lips raise goosebumps when he speaks, make her hair stand on end from the soft brush of beard and breath. "What do you want to do tonight, milady? Right now? What would make you happy?"

Getting out of the shadow of this place, she thinks. Back to the soap bubble. The sweetness.

"Dessert," she tells him, and she doesn't want to wait, doesn't want to wander much longer, so she adds, "Somewhere warm, and close by."

His arms fall away from her, his hand seeking hers.

"Come on. Let's go, then," he urges, and they take a step, another, before he casts a glance up at Saint-Sulpice and adds with a certain amount of put-upon accusation, "Churches are depressing."

They're not; _she's_ depressing. But she forces a smile anyway, and vows to leave her darker memories at the steps they're retreating from.

§§§

They walk in silence for a few minutes, his arm slung over her shoulder, her hand in _his_ back pocket now. She shouldn't have said anything. Should have kept her mouth shut. She's made the mood all… terrible. Is this awkward silence or comfortable? She can't tell.

The anxiety of the unknown has her reaching automatically for her purse, fishing out her cigarettes. She starts to slip one from the pack but then she remembers the very attractive man next to her, and all the kissing they'd done earlier and plan to do later. She hears her mother again ( _Like licking an ashtray, I'm sure_ …) and tucks the menthols away with a shake of her head.

She doesn't need a cigarette. She doesn't even smoke.

"It's alright," he tells her. "If you want to have one – I told you, I don't mind. Your lungs, not mine."

She rolls her eyes skyward for a moment – nonchalance with a side of guilt trip, how lovely.

"It's not that. It's just that you did say you wanted to kiss me some more, and it's one thing to have a cigarette and then dinner, and the better part of a bottle of wine… It's another to have a cigarette and just a little dessert and some coffee." She glances over to find him smiling at her; her lips curve automatically in answer. "So I think I will wait to have another cigarette until _after_ the kissing. It's only polite."

His smile widens, becomes a grin, and then she's gasping her surprise as he pins her suddenly to the storefront of the closed shop they'd been passing, pressing her against the glass.

"Did you know," he begins, ducking his head down close until they're only a breath apart, "that your nose does this sort of scrunchy thing from time to time that I find absolutely adorable?"

She laughs at him, shaking her head, her nose brushing his. They slide into another kiss, shallow at first, just lips and teasing, his hands on her hips, and hers clutched in the sides of his coat. And then his tongue teases out, brushes against her lower lip, and it's _warm_ , his mouth feels so warm when she opens to him. The night isn't _that_ cold, but they've been out for a while now and so she's chilled straight through – or had been until just now, his kisses warming her from the inside out. Everything about this man is warm, welcoming; he's like a hearth fire made of dimpled smiles and intellectual flirtation, stoked by patience and charm and criminal good looks. It makes her want to stretch out in front of him and bask in his residual heat, soak it all up, into her skin, into her bones. Bring it home with her, and hope it manages somehow to stay.

Regina sighs contentedly and lets herself sink, angles her head just so and kisses and kisses and kisses until her cheeks are flushed, her breath heavy, her heart thumping.

Her soon-to-be-lover is not faring any better. When they finally part, his voice is low, husky. "There, then," he rasps, "Thoroughly kissed, I hope?"

She hums an appreciative "Mmm," and then, "All warmed up, too. Thank you."

His arms wrap around her, firm and solid, holding her snugly to him.

"My pleasure," he murmurs, pressing another kiss to her lips before adding, "Literally," and then, "Now let's go get you something sweet, hmm?"

He steps back and takes so much of that warmth with him, but it's only blocks before they're ducking into a cafe, the air warm against her cheeks, her thighs tingling slightly at the shift from cold air to climate controlled heat.

They choose a spot a good distance from the door and its periodic drafty entrances and exits. The table is small, cozy; her foot rests against his shin when she crosses her legs and she doesn't make any effort to move away. Neither does he.

Their waitress is suitably distant and attentive in turns, leaving them plenty of time to peruse a mouthwatering menu of desserts and murmur over their options before coming to take their order.

 _Les choux à la crème et un déca noisette_ for Regina, and _Une tarte tatin et un café, s'il vous plaît_ for her date.

He smiles at her once the server has left. "Decaf, huh? Do we need to shuffle you off to bed soon?"

"Don't be silly; it's early," she dismisses, because it's not late by her standards, not really. She's mostly past the residual jet lag. "I just don't want to be wide awake at three AM."

"Pity, that," he shoots back, dimples teasing again, blue eyes dancing impishly. Well, at least they're both on the same page on that account…

Her smile widens, brows lifting as she parries, "I suppose now is when you tell me you could make staying up late worth my while?"

His hand unfolds across the table, inviting, so Regina brings hers to meet it halfway, and their fingers weave and link. He gives them a squeeze and then a wiggle to slacken her hold before his fingers stroke along hers (if he's going to start up with the hand foreplay again, three AM is going to find her in a post-coital nap…).

"No, milady, it is not," he tells her (she'd almost forgotten she'd asked the question, so distracted by the sensual slide of skin against skin – how he manages to make handholding so erotic, she will never understand). "I'm bold, but classy, you see."

"Oh, I see," she chuckles, nodding as her gaze drops back down to the tabletop between them for a moment while her middle does a fluttery little somersault and her poor-me-pity-party in front of the church melts away like sugar on the tongue. She swallows quickly, flicking her gaze back up to his and teasing, "I bet you could, though," adding a little wink for good measure before she loses the nerve.

It earns her another of those pleasantly surprised grins of his, another low rumble of a laugh, and his fingers pause for only a second before he's once again fiddling with hers, bending them and thumbing tantalizingly along the base of her palm, up the center.

"I definitely could," he confirms. "If that was what you wanted."

Biting the tip of her tongue to keep from saying something she might regret once the last of the wine is out of her system, Regina clenches her thighs together under the table and thinks once again that he's right about the anticipation being sweet. The movement shifts her foot against his calf, and he presses into her ever so slightly, eyes on hers, a moment of… heat? Of something… stretching between them.

She's no stranger to eye contact – to using it to her advantage, to leveraging its power – but this is something different. He holds her gaze, doesn't look away, and she can't bring herself to look away either. Like a very grown-up staring contest. No competition or taunting beneath it, but a sort of simmering challenge nonetheless.

 _Stay open to me, if you dare_.

Somehow it becomes hypnotic, gazing into his eyes. His thumb is coasting along hers now, and she feels like a constellation, bright points connected by invisible, empty strings. His touch on her hand, his too-blue gaze on hers, the warm places in her middle, her ankle against his trousers. She feels all of them in sharp relief and everything else is empty space, inconsequential.

Her tongue slips out and wets her lips, drawing his gaze down for a flickering second before it's back on hers, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he smiles (she peeks away to spy his dimples, and then returns, a little spark fizzing inside her as their eyes lock again). And then he's reeling her in, lifting her hand and drawing it, her, in closer, she leans toward him as he draws her hand up to his lips and presses a kiss to the knuckle, unfurls her fingers and presses another to her palm.

Regina's toes curl in her boots. Is she breathing?

Something over her shoulder catches his eye then, and she doesn't care what it is, she wants to destroy it for shattering this moment. (Or maybe she should be grateful that it's keeping her from turning into a gooey puddle in the middle of a cafe).

It turns out to be the server, returning with their drinks, and Robin releases her hand with a smile just this side of smug, leaning back in his chair and offering a polite _Merci_ as their cups settle onto the table. He looks for all the world like he hasn't just unravelled her with a well-placed look and some innocent touches. Like he's unaffected by it all.

Looks confident. Sexy. Confidence is sexy. This man is very sexy. This whole evening is very sexy.

Regina takes a deep breath in, slowly, silently, letting it out much the same way.

And then the waitress is gone, and he murmurs a slightly tortured, "You have no idea how badly I want to kiss you right now." Regina's lips curve, forming a smirk and then a grin.

Not so unaffected after all, apparently.

"Maybe later," she teases, her nose scrunching as she does (she notices it now only because he had mentioned it before, and it makes her feel momentarily self-conscious, has her reaching for her espresso cup and lifting it to sip).

"Maybe?" he asks, with a puppy-dog pout.

"Maybe," she confirms between sips of deliciously bitter brew, although she's fairly certain they both know there's little use in playing coy. There will be more kissing, at the very least. He has to know that.

Still, he plays along, says, "I suppose I'll have to make sure you still find me interesting enough for the privilege by the time we leave here."

"Mm," she agrees.

"I've done alright so far, it seems, but it could all fall apart here." He sighs, leaning back, his posture open, those fingers that so tantalized her now fiddling with his own cup. She wants them back. "A lovely date and then a miserable dessert; it could happen."

"It could," she smirks, glancing up as the waitress returns with their desserts, a drizzle of chocolate sauce poured over the decadence of profiteroles. She's almost as hungry for them as she is for the man across from her.

"What can we talk about to keep you interested then, hmm?" he wonders, picking up his fork and letting it sink into the appley goodness of his own dessert. "Because you're quite a good kisser, milady; I'd hate to miss out on more time with you."

§§§

They settle on travel. Places they've been. He's envious of her several jaunts to the Caribbean in her 20s; she picks his brain eagerly about time spent in Morocco during his gap year. That leads to a discussion of the intricate beauty of Islamic architecture (and his disappointment that he hadn't been able to fully appreciate it as a lad of only eighteen) and then the Moors, which brings them to realization that they've both been to Grenada, to the Alhambra, and by the time they finish gushing about _that_ , they both have empty plates, empty cups.

The minutes have flown in a dervish of honeycombed ceilings and arabesques, mosaic tiles and fountains, and when silence descends again it is comfortable. A lull, but a pleasant one. She curls her fingers around her cup and lets her attention wander the cafe briefly – it's nearly empty; she wonders if that's due to the time or the season. It's the eve of Christmas Eve, after all. Surely people are preparing for the holiday festivities.

People who have people to celebrate with, anyway.

When she looks back at her date, she finds him staring. No – considering. He's considering her, his head tilted just slightly to the side, an intensity in his gaze as he looks her over. But a hesitance, too. She feels like a particularly puzzling piece of art hung on a gallery wall, and shifts a little self-consciously.

"What?" she questions.

He tilts his head even further at her, curious, gives her a mystified look.

"You have a face," she elaborates. "Why?"

"I imagine I'd look rather odd if I didn't," he replies, mouth quirking up at one side and Regina rolls her eyes.

"Clever," she drawls, very clear that he is not so.

"I was simply thinking," he begins, his hand stretching across the table until his fingers brush against the backs of hers. ( _God, yes_ , she thinks, and then, _Down, girl_. She doesn't uncurl her fingers this time, not quite yet. She'll never be able to listen to what he has to say if she gives him free reign of her hands again.) "That I could walk you back to wherever it is you're staying. Or…" His gaze drops to those hands, his fingertip tracing a line down along her second knuckles, pointer, middle, ring, then hooking around her pinky. "I live a few blocks away," he tells her quietly, eyes flicking back up to hers, rich with both hesitation and promise. "And would very much like to kiss you out of the cold. If I've kept you suitably interested, of course."

"Inviting me back to your place to kiss me, hmm?" she teases dryly, knowing full well that even if he'd flat-out said he wants to drag her into the cafe restroom, strip her down and do terribly debaucherous things to her, she'd probably agree right now. She wants him. He wants her. She's an adult. No reason not to take what she wants, with this nameless stranger in Paris. And he has kept her very, very interested.

"Yes," he says earnestly, blue gaze steady on hers, his hand shifting to weave their grip more fully. _That's cheating_ , she thinks. He has to have figured out what that does to her. "I'll not lie and say there's nothing else I… desire. But if you come home with me, I promise…" He lifts their joined hands, reels her in slowly again to press another kiss to her knuckles. Oh, he's good. He's very good at this. "I expect nothing more than a good and proper snog."

Regina licks her lips, drawing her hand back gingerly, for the sake of her dignity, and her hormones, and the already damp state of her underwear. He lets her go without protest.

"It's generally ill-advised," she points out. "Going home with strange men in strange cities."

"It is," he agrees. "But I give you my word as a man of law that my intentions are pure. Or at least… not murderous."

She snorts, shaking her head. "And I will point out that you're an artist now, not a lawyer. And besides, didn't you say you spent your living helping crooks go free? How much weight can your word really hold?"

She doesn't mean it as a dig, she just means to tease, but she can see in the tension of the smirk he gives her, in the brief shuttering of his downcast eyes, that she's hit a sore spot. Shit. She should have known better – he'd left because it was all ugliness; the last thing he'd want is to be painted with the same hideous brush as those he'd defended.

And she knows what she wants – she trusts him, whether that's wise or not. And she _needs_ , she _wants_ , she has a strong and untamable desire to know what those teasing fingers feel like on the rest of her.

So she nudges him under the table and urges, "Get the check. I'm not done kissing you either."

It brings those dimples back to the table, and she breathes an internal sigh of relief that she hasn't managed to ruin this entirely with one poorly placed word.

§§§

He lives in a walk-up, not much of a surprise there, and he doesn't let go of her hand even as they climb three flights of stairs. Regina's anticipation rises with every step. She hasn't promised him anything, wants to give herself the chance to back out if she realizes that the prospect of actual sex with a practical stranger had been more alluring than the reality.

And yet while she stands next to him at his threshold, watches him fish out the keys to unlock the door to apartment twenty-three, she's already itchy with the promise of things to come. She rests her hand on his back, entertains a brief fantasy about leaning in to kiss that spot on his jaw that made him groan earlier, but she thinks maybe it's one of those maneuvers that sounds hot but would end up being terribly awkward if she tried it. He's taller than her, and she's basically face to face with his shoulder.

And then he's gotten the door unlocked and is holding it open for her, flicking a light on as he does, and the moment is gone.

His place is… decent. Nice. A bit spartan for her tastes, but not unwelcoming. Definitely not the home of a serial killer, so that's good. The walls are white, but covered in art, framed pieces and taped up drawings. One corner of the room is stacked with old milk crates stuffed with sketchpads and paper, storage boxes, and brushes, a pack of pastels lying open on the top of the little makeshift shelving.

She itches to touch, to rifle through everything, but when he crosses over there to discard the messenger bag that's been toting his sketchbook and pencils since this afternoon, rolling his shoulders as he frees them, she hangs back near the door.

"Make yourself at home," he urges, and she skims the rest of the room, taking a step, another, until she's standing in the middle of it all – worn sofa, a decent TV, a bookshelf crammed with thin paperbacks and thick hardcovers. She can see the kitchen off the far side of the room, and a door to a room she can only imagine is the bedroom to the left of it.

He skirts behind her with a soft touch to her elbow, scooping a hoodie off the arm of the sofa, and an empty bowl from the side table, the slowly solidifying remnants of what she guesses was cereal visible for only a moment before he scurries off to the kitchen with a slightly sheepish look and a muttered, "Wasn't planning on entertaining."

While he's gone, she drops her purse onto the scuffed coffee table, unbuttons her coat and tugs off her hat, her scarf. The accessories get piled on top of her handbag, but she's folding the coat over her arm as he comes back in.

He spies her, and reaches for it, offering, "Let me take that for you," and jamming it onto an already-occupied hook near the door, draping his own coat over top of it. She wonders if hers will come away smelling like pine when she finally goes home.

And then he turns back to her, and the low current of tension that has crackled between them all night buzzes just a bit higher, fed by a sudden awkwardness. She's here to make out with him. That had been the invitation, they both know it's coming, it's just a matter of how to go from small talk and pleasantries to dry-humping on the couch. Or in the bed. Not-so-dry-humping, in that case, she imagines…

Regina licks her lips and stuffs her hands into her pockets, meets his gaze. That tension sparks harder, and he closes the distance between them, stops a foot from her as he asks, "Would you like the nickel tour, then?"

She nods, automatically; it's the polite thing to do and she was raised to be nothing if not polite. But as he takes a step closer and reaches out for her arm, a moment from leading her toward getting more familiar with his refrigerator and his company towels, she realizes she doesn't give a crap about his apartment, at least not when she could be kissing him.

She can see the stove later, she thinks, reaching out to fist the front of his shirt and tug him a step closer, not relinquishing her hold as she crashes her mouth against his.

His hesitation lasts only as long as she imagines it takes him to recover from the surprise shift in their plans, and then he's wrapping an arm around her waist, burying the other hand in her hair and leading her in backward, stumbling steps. She bumps painfully into the corner of the coffee table and grunts, their lips parting with a smack, but it's a minor discomfort, so she hushes his wincing _Sorry_ with another bruising kiss that they manage to keep up even as they sink to his sofa, side by side, her knee pressing to his before he reaches for it and tugs it up into his lap.

God, she loves kissing him. Loves it. Even more now that they're in private, in the warmth of his apartment instead of the chilly night air of the Paris streets. One of his hands is restless, stroking up and down her thigh, across her lower back, around to her ass, his thumb skimming beneath the soft green cashmere of her sweater and tickling against the skin at the base of her spine. The other stays tangled in dark locks, curled gently at the base of her skull, holding her close as they kiss, and kiss, and kiss.

He tastes like espresso and apples, and as he slants his head slightly and goes for her even more deeply, she moans and shifts, wants more, more, climbs onto his lap, her knees pressed tight to the cushions on either side of his hips. She gets greedy, threads her fingers in _his_ hair and tilts his head just so, kisses the hell out of him because she can, and bless him, he doesn't mind a bit, just gropes for her ass and finally lets that hand in her hair slide down, stroking her neck in a way that makes her shiver and then skimming her collar before coasting down to cup lightly at her breast.

Her thighs clench against his as his thumb sweeps across the swell (her sweater is not thick, her bra just a bit of French lace and underwire, and her nipples are already hard). He mumbles, "S'alright?" against her lips, and she nods before nipping her way toward that spot on his jaw (he groans again, and she grins, again).

His head drops back to the sofa cushion, jaw tilting away to give her better access and his fingers start to tease, the hand on her ass growing bolder, fingertips sneaking beneath denim (she curses skinny jeans for his inability to get more than a few knuckles beneath her belt), the one on her breast zeroing in on her stiff peak and tracing little circles over it, teasing back and forth across it. The dulled touch is maddening, drives her to distraction, has her grinding against him. She's not quite snug to his hips, but he's hard beneath her, tenting the denim, and she grazes against it as her pelvis rocks, both of them exhaling heavily at the tantalizing hint of friction (the underwear is just lace, too, not nearly enough structure to provide any barrier for how wet she is by now, and she's fairly certain that every slow drag contributes to a damp spot on her jeans).

Her mouth is back on his, one hand underneath his shirt, blindly exploring the smooth muscles of his abdomen when he brings his other hand around to her neglected breast and starts to pinch lightly at the nipple.

Her forehead presses to his as she gasps her approval, little tendrils of pleasure spreading out from the pressure, and then he's doing the same to the other nipple as well, giving them both little squeezes and tugs in tandem, and it's exquisite, but not _enough_. Regina slips her hand from the warmth beneath his shirt and wraps her fingers around his wrists, drawing his touch down, down, until she can guide him back up, beneath the cashmere.

Their eyes lock, the blue of his gone darker with desire, his lips pink from insistent kisses, and they hold gazes as he strokes up her belly, traces over the skimpy lace (he groans quietly, bites his lower lip) and then grasps for her nipples again, no soft cashmere to dull his attentions, only the delicate lace and its pleasant friction.

Regina lets out a soft sound of pleasure, her jaw dropping slightly. He's still looking her right in the eye and it's _hot_ , him watching the way he makes her sigh and grind harder against him, his head bobbing slightly in a little nod of encouragement.

Certainty strikes then, a sort of calm and clear-headed knowledge that she wants to ride him through the sofa and into the floor, names be damned, propriety be damned. She is _doing_ this, so long as he's interested. And he is, she can feel how much he is, can feel the evidence of it dragging against her clit as another little twisting tug has her hips writhing.

This isn't making out, this is _foreplay_ (the whole damn evening has been foreplay), and it seems only kind to make sure he knows it, too.

So she rakes her fingers through the grey-flecked hair at his temples, makes sure he's looking her right in the eyes, and then rasps, "Je te veux."

His brows lift slightly, his glance flicking down between them and then back up before he asks, "Are you certain?"

Regina nods, scratches her nails across his nape. "I've been certain since dinner," she confesses with a coy little smile. And then, "Of course, that's assuming _you_ want to."

He grins, dimples flashing as he tells her, "God, yes," and then his hands are rising, scooping her sweater up by the armpits and tugging the green cashmere over her head, tossing it to puddle on the other end of the sofa. His hands are back on her breasts immediately, tongue peeking out to lick his lips as he fondles appreciatively, his palms nearly covering all of the skimpy black lace before coasting down her belly. "It's almost a shame I'm going to have to take that off," he says softly, and she grins, immeasurably pleased with herself and her decision to put on the new French lingerie this morning for no reason at all. Just because she could.

"I suppose you could leave it on," she teases, bunching his shirt in her fingers and drawing it over his head as he chuckles.

He flops back to the cushions when she gets it off, hand moving back to her breast to give it a gentle squeeze as he declares, "Not a chance."

Regina snickers in response, stroking her fingers down the toned muscles of his torso (he's fit, but not built – well-muscled without being bulky) as his hands drop to her thighs again, sliding down to her knees and then hooking behind them. When he gives them a tug outward to scoot her closer to him, she lets out an embarrassing little surprised squeak, but ends up with her hips pressed snugly to his. They're seam-to-fly, his denim-clad erection pressed hard to her clit, and it makes her breath catch, makes her hips rock again but with much more effect now.

They need to get rid of the rest of these clothes.

She reaches between them, fumbling with his belt buckle blindly as he leans in and drops damp kisses over the swell of her cleavage, making his way down until he's sucking and nibbling at her right nipple through the scant barrier of her lingerie. It doesn't do much to dull the sensation; his mouth is still warm and wet, the friction and pressure still make her clit throb.

She gets his belt undone just as he tugs the lace aside and swirls his tongue over her bare nipple. He lets out this low little moan and then sucks her in, and Regina echoes the sound. For a moment, her fingers go slack, she stills, just enjoying the gentle waves of pleasure, and then he's dropping more open-mouthed kisses over her chest, headed to the other side, and she's tugging at his button and fly.

It's a tight fit, she's still pressed tightly to him, and working his zipper down drags her own knuckles against the damp warmth of her jeans. She bites her lip, flushing with pleasure and embarrassment; she cannot remember the last time she was this turned on. Cannot remember if she has _ever_ been this turned on. It feels so right, so good, but there's a part of her, the part of her mother that never leaves her, she supposes, that tells her this is wrong, that she shouldn't feel like this, not for a stranger, that she shouldn't be letting him – _oh_ , his fingertips tickle against the soft skin of her breast as he draws the lace of her other cup aside and treats her to the same toe-curling attention, lips sucking, tongue flicking against her nipple, and she moans harshly at the sensation and tells that killjoy part of her to shut the hell up and _enjoy_ this.

As he starts to use his teeth in gentle scrapes, cups her other breast and treats the already-sensitive peak to rolling tugs, she delves a hand into his open fly, worms it beneath his underwear and wraps her fingers around his erection.

Shit.

He's _hard_ , and _warm_ and _thick_ and she clenches in empty places that want very badly to be filled at the moment. She squirms with pleasure, feels the slick slide of sodden lace, and breathes, "I'm so wet," unthinkingly, only realizing she's actually said the words out loud when he stills for a moment, groans and presses his brow to her collarbone.

His "Is that so?" is muffled against her skin, and her cheeks flush with heat again, mortified at her confession until his hands skim down to her waist and begin to work at belt and button.

She nods, swallows heavily, says, "Yes," in the time it takes him to work a hand into the snug denim, fingertips dipping down, warm through the softness of lace, making her hiss quietly when he drags them over her clit.

"Christ," he murmurs, rubbing gently, "You weren't kidding."

"Mm-mm," she confirms with a shake of her head, hips rocking against his touch, and then it's gone, his hand streaking back up, tangling in her hair and tugging her back to him for a hungry kiss, his other hand on her ass again, holding her to him as his hips grind up against hers, and fuck, yes, that's… yes… Regina grinds back against him, huffing out a heavy breath through her nose at the pleasure, tongue flicking against his.

He hoists her a moment later, slides that hand across her ass until he has an arm solidly beneath her and scoops her up, only to plop her unceremoniously on her back on the cushions, half-kneeling between her thighs and tugging her jeans down her hips.

She shimmies to help him, then realizes, "Wait - boots."

He grumbles and sits back, reaches to draw the zipper down on one boot while she sits up and does the same to the other to save time. Her arm presses to his side as he yanks the leather off her foot and tosses it to the ground with a dull thunk, and then he's twisting to help pull off the other before bending and swiftly unlacing his own shoes.

While he toes them off, Regina reaches back to unhook her bra and toss it aside. It lands on the far edge of the coffee table, skids a bit and falls to the floor. And then he's back with her, fingers curled in the waist of her jeans, drawing them down and off.

She relaxes back into the cushions, lets her legs fall open, hoping to keep his attention on the gauzy black of her brazilian briefs and not the grey wool of her calf-high socks.

It works; his gaze is drawn to her like a magnet, his head shaking slightly in appreciation, as he reaches out a hand and caresses from the top hem of the lace down to her clit, and further, then back up.

"You are so beautiful," he tells her, a hint of wonder in his voice, and it makes her feel unspeakably gorgeous and incredibly self-conscious in turns, so she reaches for him. Grasps at his shoulders, and attempts to draw him down to her, but he resists. He gives her another slow rub between the thighs and then grasps gingerly at the delicate lace, drawing that down too, until she's bare before him, spreading her thighs again and wishing she'd had the foresight to know she'd be indulging in a hook-up while on vacation.

She'd have gotten a wax instead of just packing her razor, would have shaved the important bits this morning instead of two days ago. Self-consciousness swells again, has her wanting to close her legs and hide the fact that she's a little stubbly instead of silky smooth, but then he's licking his lips and sliding his palms up her inner thighs, swiping his thumb through her wetness, up to her clit for a little circle and then back down, murmuring, "Origine du monde, indeed," before shifting until he's half on top of her.

She laughs softly, doubts dissolving as she draws his mouth back to hers, enjoys the warmth of his shoulders under her palms, the residual heat of him hovering above her, and then that hand between her thighs shifts, two fingers stroking instead of his thumb. They sink into her easily, no resistance, just slippery welcome, and Regina moans into his mouth, her head tilting back slightly. He peppers kisses over her chin, along her jaw, works his fingers inside her slowly, a low groan of appreciation in the back of his throat.

Something shifts, angle or pressure, something, and it has her crying out softly, her back arching, nails digging into his shoulders as pleasure blooms in her belly.

"Just there?" he asks, his voice tight, and she forces her eyes open so she can see him, nodding, breathing _Yesss_ … He's watching her now, intent on her face, glancing down every now and then to her breasts, and then meeting her eyes again. Watching, studying, while his fingers move, and move, faster, faster, making her _ahhh_ and _mmm_ and grope at his bicep, his ribs. "You feel amazing," he whispers, and Regina nods even though it is not a question.

Because she does, she feels amazing, feels sexy, feels _good_ , feels – oh! He ups the pace again, shifts just enough that his palm smacks against her clit on every thrust and oh, oh shit, oh, oh God, that's, this is, _oh,_ good, so good, her eyes squeeze shut, her thighs falling open even further, and she feels him shift his weight on top of her, and then his touch is surer, his fingers taking her faster, filling her, she's not empty anymore, wants _more_ , but this is good, so good, _so_ good, she's moaning and gasping, can't help it, fingers grasping at him as he stirs her up.

She's half-addled with bliss, the steady pace of his fingers inside her driving her oh-so-quickly in the direction of that peak she's been building toward with every word, every touch, every kiss, goosebumps flaring on her skin all of a sudden, tightening her nipples, and fuck she's almost there, and then he moans and draws his fingers back and _why?_

But he's shoving his jeans down to his knees and murmuring, "Fuck," and "I can't wait any bloody longer, I have to be inside you," and oh yes, yes, that's a good plan.

Regina nods, and shifts a little on the sofa, spreading her thighs wider and practically vibrating with anticipation as he kicks off the rest of his denim and then arranges himself between her legs.

She moans before he even enters her, before he even touches her, is delirious at just the thought of it, and she'd be embarrassed at her eagerness but he just groans, "I know, God, I know," before shifting in closer, and at least they're _both_ ridiculously turned on by this whole thing.

And then he presses against her, smooth and warm and hard, and she bites down on her lower lip, watches his face as he watches himself slide home, filling her, stretching pleasantly (she's so tight, has been so close, is so incredibly fucking wet, God, who knew casual sex with Parisian transplants was what got her this hot?). His jaw drops slightly, and when he's in her to the hilt, she clenches reflexively (she's still so close, _so_ close), and his eyes squeeze shut, nostrils flaring, teeth closing again and she can see the muscle in his jaw flex for a moment and then release.

She needs him to move, _needs_ him, wants him to just… God, to just…

"Fuck me," she breathes, and he groans, and murmurs that he won't last, he needs a minute. "I won't last either," she assures him, dragging her hands from elbows, to shoulders, down his back, gripping his ass and pulling him in even tighter. It presses him against her clit, and she moans softly, grinds up into him.

His head dips, his Adam's apple bobs as he swallows, and then those eyes open on her, blue and burning, and he hooks one knee over his elbow and starts to thrust, and _oh!_

"God, yes," she moans, and he's not slow, and not gentle, starts taking her hard and quick, and he raps against her hips with every deep thrust and that spring of tension he'd been winding in her belly coils tight again, tension building and building with each thrust, and she watches him through half-lidded eyes, this man whose name she doesn't know, watches him move inside her, feels it, the steady pounding, the pressure, the friction.

And then her eyes squeeze shut and she just lets herself feel, lets herself cry out as he thrusts again, again, more, quicker, harder, and oh, oh fuck, oh, oh God, that's– she's–

"I'm – _please!"_

She's not sure what she's asking for, not really, but his thumb lands on her clit a moment later, rubbing sloppily in time to his thrusts and she stiffens and arches beneath him, and comes hard. Pleasure zings through her, bounces around her insides like a pinball, making her tense and flex and shout, her nails digging into his ass as he thrusts twice more and then starts to pull out.

She's not ready to let him go, is still coming, cries out softly at the loss but then he's jerking himself twice and spilling on her belly, and maybe she could have milked her orgasm for an even more exquisite high but watching him come has its own satisfaction.

It also reminds her that they hadn't used a condom, and she hopes to God he's clean, hopes he wouldn't put her at risk if he wasn't. Doesn't think he would. Wishes she'd had the foresight to discuss this earlier. Wishes she'd told him she can't conceive except by some miracle of the Almighty, so he could have given her those last two jolts of pleasure instead of his palm.

Her thighs are still trembling, one hooked lazily over his arm. His brow is still a little dewy with sweat, eyes closed for the moment. It's a touch awkward, that post-coital moment with a stranger, lying there with a warm little puddle of semen on her belly, but then he blinks his eyes back open and gives her a sheepish little smile, murmurs, "Sorry," and then, "Let me get something to…" and draws, back, away, rising and heading for the kitchen.

She stays where she is (puddle of semen, after all), and admires the rear view. She's not the only one in the room with a great ass.

He's still in his socks, but then, so is she, and she digs her wool-clad feet into the sofa cushions, draping one arm across her breasts and closing her thighs while she waits for his return.

It doesn't take long, he's hurrying back in moments, brandishing a paper towel and a still-softening cock. She wants him again, already. Or maybe she just wants… more. The sex had been good, the orgasm fierce and satisfying, but instead of leaving her feeling jelly-limbed and sleepy, it has her wanting even more of him. Another round. More of his thick length sliding in and out of her again and again and again before she leaves for her hotel. He's not a man she wants to take to bed just once.

He settles on the sofa near her knees, wrapping one arm around them and offering her the paper towel. As she dabs at her belly, he says perhaps the three best words he's said all night:

"Stay the night," and then, "I'd like to do that again, properly."

Regina lifts one brow. "That wasn't properly?"

"It was over too quick," he tells her, fingers wandering down her thigh, his touch light, teasing, raising goosebumps over her hip, all the way up to her belly, making her nipples tighten. "I'd like to take more time. If you don't mind."

She smiles, thanks her lucky stars that she lingered a little too long in the Mona Lisa room this afternoon, and says, "I suppose I could stay."


End file.
